


Something Brewing in the Discourses

by palavapeite



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Brewhaha, M/M, brewers from nothinghamshire are massive dorks and have hidden depths, rated T for the last paragraph
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28697781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palavapeite/pseuds/palavapeite
Summary: In early February of 1819 there was, in a little village perhaps three, or four, miles north of Bingham that has long since become part of the expanding town, a plaque of honour put up.
Relationships: Mr Gatcombe/Mr Tantony
Comments: 13
Kudos: 8





	Something Brewing in the Discourses

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, [BeautifulSoup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulSoup/pseuds/BeautifulSoup) for the support and finding the typos in Mr Gatcombe's thoughts! 
> 
> I don't really have anything else to say, this just happened. You're welcome.

In early February of 1819 there was, in a little village perhaps three, or four, miles north of Bingham that has long since become part of the expanding town, a plaque of honour put up.

A great deal of fuss was made ahead of its unveiling to make certain that the plaque should be placed somewhere nobody should miss it, and so it was affixed square in the centre of the gate to what had over the years become one of the most respected and successful breweries of the greater Bingham area, regularly selling casks of its signature brew to Nottingham, Newark and, on occasion, as far as Grantham all the way over in Lincolnshire – and now, most recently, as far north as York! There was nobody who, upon hearing this, would not have agreed that the proprietors of such a brewery were to be considered successful and respectable businessmen indeed, and that, naturally, such outstanding prosperity ought to be recognised with a plaque. 

The sign above the door of the main building of the brewery declared that these successful and respectable proprietors were a Mr T. Tantony and a Mr J. V. Gatcombe, both of whom may be unfamiliar to a reader from Sheffield or Birmingham (and certainly a grand place such as London), but were in fact well known men of excellent reputation in their community three or four miles north of Bingham. Mr Tantony and Mr Gatcombe had founded the brewery together some decades ago, after Mr Tantony had come into a modest inheritance and had suggested to his childhood friend Mr Gatcombe, who had been living in the city of Nottingham at the time and just married a young woman with a respectable dowry, that they set up a business together. 

Over the years, they had honed their craft of brewing and grown said business as well as their reputation until at last, on 14 February of 1819, everyone in their village was gathered outside the brewery gates on the far side of the village square (opposite the church), and old Mr Eggleden, whose estate encompassed most of the surrounding lands, generously condescended to give a speech in praise of Mr Gatcombe and Mr Tantony, whose ale he considered to be among the best in all of Nottinghamshire, and whose work ethic and affinity for forging favourable connexions he lauded as exemplary and commendable. 

Mr Gatcombe, who stood beside his daughter at the front of the assembly wearing his best, if a little tight, waistcoat, blushed most maidenly at such praise and insisted in a steady stream of muttering directed at Mr Swatling the minister, who stood to his other side, that Mr Eggleden was being altogether too kind and that certainly Mr Tantony and himself had dedicated their every waking hour to the growth and expansion of their humble enterprise for many, many years before fortune had begun to smile on their venture, but truly, Mr Eggleden was being too kind, too kind…! When his daughter, sympathetic to the emotional impact of the moment, handed him her handkerchief, he dabbed at his eye in a dignified manner, and smiled beatifically for the benefit of the present company. 

For their little village it was indeed a momentous occasion, as nobody in the area so far had achieved anything of mentionable magnitude or fame, and definitely nothing that merited the commissioning of a plaque. Several people besides Mr Gatcombe were dabbing tears from their eyes as Mr Eggleden ploughed on through his lengthy speech, and had Mr Tantony been able to attend the ceremony, there was no doubt that he too would have been greatly moved by the too kind – too kind! – things the honourable gentleman had to say about him. 

Alas, Mr Tantony had, unfortunately, not made it to the gathering – not because he would not have been humbled to hear his praises sung by so important a man as esteemed Mr Eggleden, but because he had, it seemed, been delayed on his way back home from York. 

For you must know that while Mr Tantony was, had always been, and would always remain so long as he lived, a brewer at heart, he had also in recent years, as their business had flourished and afforded him the leisure to pursue other interests, decided to become a magician. 

Naturally Mr Gatcombe had been altogether supportive of his friend’s venture from the start, and had even briefly considered applying himself to the study, but eventually decided that Mr Tantony, who had never taken a wife and remained a bachelor, was much better suited to the magical profession than he, widowed Mr Gatcombe, who had a daughter yet to be married. This decision had not at all affected their friendship, it must be said – indeed it had been Mr Gatcombe who had not only encouraged Mr Tantony to seek tutelage under Jonathan Strange, who, as you might remember, was at the time an English magician of some renown, but he, having spent several years in Nottingham and thus being more experienced in the ways of city life, had further extended his support as far as taking Mr Tantony on a trip to London in November of 1814 to make their introductions to Mr Strange in person, on which occasion their brewery had been shut for two entire weeks, as anyone in their village would well remember, as this was a most unusual occurrence. 

Though this particular expedition to London had, admittedly, not unfolded entirely according to their expectations, Mr Tantony’s interest in magic had remained untarnished, and it was of no surprise to anyone – least of all Mr Gatcombe – when the summons to the Olde Starre Inn went out to English magicians everywhere and Mr Tantony felt himself obliged to answer it. This had been, oh, not two years ago, just after the restoration, or, as magicians like Mr Tantony liked to refer to it, _the opening of the mirrors_. 

And indeed, Mr Tantony had been spending a great deal of time ever since corresponding with his fellow magicians, in particular Mr Segundus, who was, as of course anyone with only the faintest interest in the subject of modern magic would know, endeavouring to open a school for magicians up in Yorkshire, and indeed, it was shaping up to be quite a success. Mr Tantony (and Mr Gatcombe, too, as he sometimes accompanied Mr Tantony to York) had met Mr Segundus several times at the meetings of the Society of York magicians, which Mr Tantony liked to attend when he could take the time, and since they had both once been well acquainted with the mysterious Mr Strange, it was only natural that he and Mr Segundus should develop a friendship. 

If this frequently left Mr Gatcombe alone in taking care of their brewing business, he considered Mr Tantony too dear a friend to hold it against him – and indeed it was Mr Tantony’s acquaintance with Mr Segundus and Mr Honeyfoot, another York magician, that had led to their establishing a business connexion with the Olde Starre Inn, so it was, at the end of the day, only to be rejoiced in that Mr Tantony had discovered his passion for magic. 

Mr Gatcombe told all of this to Mr Swatling the minister with hushed, nervous urgency, while only ten feet away, on a little stage that had been cobbled together from planks and decked out with ribbons, Mr Eggleden slowly but surely approached the end of his speech and the long-awaited moment when it would be Mr Gatcombe’s turn to join him for the unveiling of the plaque. 

When the moment came and the plaque was unveiled to great applause and cheering, declaring Mr Tantony and Mr Gatcombe the most respectable and successful brewers in the Bingham area, and pride of their little village, it came as no surprise to anyone that Mr Gatcombe, flustered at also being handed, very unexpectedly, a most official looking certificate certifying his and Mr Tantony’s brewing talents, made rather a fumble of his speech. It was was the excitement of the day – a special day, almost his name day, his middle name being Valentine, which, of course, everyone present was well aware of – and the honour was, of course, considerable and humbling to be on the receiving end of, and he felt very smiled upon by fortune indeed to be receiving it from people so fine and respectable as the present company, and he was, of course, absolutely and entirely certain that Mr Tantony, were he here, which he could, most unfortunately, not be, would be expressing all the same sentiments as he, Mr Gatcombe, who found himself so very moved and grateful, not only at being presented with such an excellent plaque, but with such an artfully rendered, most unexpected certificate. 

This unexpected certificate, Mr Gatcombe resolved much later that day, when he had inspected it at his desk by the light of a very large and stately candleholder he had ordered from London for his and Mr Tantony’s joint office, was a very fine and elegant piece of work and sported immaculate penmanship, and he would have it framed and mounted on the wall in a place where every visitor to their office should see it immediately. 

There were other frames to consider in the placement, of course – the large oil painting of what Mr Tantony had proposed was Nottingham at some earlier point in history, then the smaller watercolour painting of Mr Gatcombe’s late wife that their daughter had made and that was hung close to the window by his desk, where it caught a lot of light. There were a handful of smaller frames on one wall, like the newspaper clipping from when they had celebrated the 20th anniversary of their brewery and Mr Swatling had arranged for an announcement in the _Bingham Herald_ , or the charcoal sketch a travelling artist had made of Mr Gatcombe and Mr Tantony standing in front of the gates of their brewery (yet without a plaque, and both Mr Tantony and Mr Gatcombe yet without the added weight success had added to their youthful waists). There was also Mr Tantony’s two-page article that he had written for the _Friends of English Magic_ detailing the specifics of the magical advice he had received from the man whom he had believed to be Mr Strange, and that Mr Gatcombe had had framed for him as a present, and their bill from the Bedford the night they had met the real Mr Strange that Mr Tantony had held on to. 

It was a tricky endeavour, Mr Gatcombe realised, as he made his way through the room, to hold the piece of parchment up to the wall and at the same time look at it from some distance away to gauge whether the placement was to his liking. Two people might have made short work of it, but there was nobody else at the brewery at so late an hour, and so he had to resign himself to patience and to finding a suitable spot the next day. 

Returning to his desk and taking one last moment to behold the magnificence of their certificate, Mr Gatcombe’s first thought, it must be admitted, upon hearing footsteps on the stairs outside, was in fact delight at the prospect of someone who might help him decide on a suitable hanging place after all, and only when he remembered that he had locked the front door did his thoughts turn to the dangerous possibility of a burglary taking place. 

Of course, Mr Gatcombe, though he took pride in assuming, generally, a genteel and mild-tempered manner befitting his station in the village, was not the sort of man to cower in the face of danger, so he did not hesitate at all, once he had conceived of the possibility of violence being done to him, to place the certificate into the top drawer of his desk and then immediately looking around for a weapon with which he might defend himself. 

The candleholder would do very nicely, he decided, and he was in the process of removing the candles – for reasons of fire safety – when the futile turning of a key in the already open lock of the door alerted him to the peculiarity that a burglar should be in possession of a key in the first place, not to mention that he should bother with such a degree of orderliness in the carrying out of his crime. 

“It is open!” Mr Gatcombe called out when the key began to wiggle a little desperately, tensing at the sound of his own voice, which felt to him to be very loud in the silence of the building so late at night, but then instantly relaxing when the person outside opened the door and revealed himself to be… 

...why, none other than Mr Tantony!

There could be no doubt of it, for Mr Gatcombe had seen him stand in the door with his hand on the doorknob just like so nigh on a hundred, no, more likely a thousand times before, and it was the most familiar sight indeed. It was a dashing image too, Mr Tantony being as handsome as always in his coat and hat and the scarf that accentuated his eyes, and Mr Gatcombe had always thought that his magicianship lent a particularly competent and mysterious air to Mr Tantony’s presence. 

Thus preoccupied as he rid himself of his choice of assault weapon in order to fuss, excited by the unexpected return of his friend and exclaiming self-evident facts such as “Thomas!”, which was Mr Tantony’s Christian name, and “You have returned!” for the benefit of nobody in particular except perhaps his own peace of mind, he did not immediately notice the large object Mr Tantony was carrying under one arm, moving it to his other when Mr Gatcombe helped him out of his coat. It was perhaps because Mr Tantony was just then explaining in his usual manner of not wasting many words, that he had meant to be back in time for the ceremony, but that an axle of his coach had broken on the way.

“And I suppose, being a magician you were called upon to un-break the axle when all other men’s efforts were to no avail!” Mr Gatcombe concluded as he placed Mr Tantony’s hat upon the hatstand in a corner of the room and began to unwrap the scarf from his neck. 

“No, I walked the rest of the way. It took longer than I anticipated,” Mr Tantony said, his cheeks and lips cold to the touch from the February wind, and it was only then that Mr Gatcombe’s eyes fell to the large object under his friend’s arm. 

“But surely you must have used your magic to carry something so heavy all this way!” 

The object Mr Tantony was holding was a cask of ale. Oh, not a big cask of ale – as far as casks of ale went, it was really of the smaller sort to fit so neatly under Mr Tantony’s arm, but if there was one thing Mr Gatcombe considered himself to be an expert of the highest rank in, it was the properties of casks of ale, and he knew for a fact that even casks of this size were not easily carried over long distances. What was more, he instantly recognised the cask as one of their very own, and it appeared to him most peculiar indeed that Mr Tantony should go to all this trouble only to bring back a cask of something they had an entire barnful of. 

“Oh, it is only the empty cask,” Mr Tantony remarked, handing it to Mr Gatcombe, who understood this turn of events even less, and must have looked appropriately discombobulated because Mr Tantony explained without further prompting, which he was rarely perceptive enough to do, “It was the first of our casks to be opened at the Olde Starre Inn, and emptied within an hour into the Society meeting.” 

“But that must mean that it was very well received, I should think!” Mr Gatcombe burst out, now beaming at the wooden cock that stuck out the front of the cask, and at this point I am afraid his thoughts began to stumble quite over one another, enough so that his mouth struggled to keep up – he had thought, or really, rather it was just occurring to him, but it was certainly a thought that must be shared instantly with Mr Tantony, as all business related ventures ought, that perhaps they might come up with a special brew for the Society, and maybe call it something magical, and perhaps, perhaps also present their brewery as the first in Nottingham – no, but perhaps they might even be the first in England, unless Mr Tantony had heard of any other brewers becoming magicians at one of his Society meetings – and the Society meeting, he did hope it had gone well, and how was Mr Segundus, and had Mr Tantony – Mr Gatcombe certainly and sincerely hoped so – enjoyed his meeting with his fellow magicians, and his visit to Yorkshire?

“Oh,” Mr Tantony said simply, shrugging as though he was not much bothered, “Magicians sure do like to talk all the time.” 

Of this Mr Gatcombe was, of course, well aware, having accompanied his friend several times to such meetings and having remarked every single time how magicians would, in his humble opinion, very much profit as a group from being able to shut up and listen every once in a while, and he could not help but offer the same opinion to Mr Tantony now, even though it was just the two of them standing in their joint office without any other person, and certainly no magician, within earshot. Even as he spoke passionately on the matter, however, Mr Gatcombe had to admit that his mind was not entirely on the matter, as he was still very much focused on the cask in his hands. It was a very fine cask. 

“I thought,” Mr Tantony said – and if he noticed Mr Gatcombe’s distraction then it did not keep him from looking pleased –, “that perhaps you would like to mount it on one of our walls.” 

“Oh!” Mr Gatcombe ejaculated then, almost dropping the cask, but collecting himself at the last moment and tucking it safely under one arm while resting the other one around Mr Tantony’s shoulders. “That is, I mean to say yes! Yes, of course, we must, and we will, but oh, this reminds me…!” 

What this reminded him of was, as you may have guessed, the certificate that he had before hidden in his topmost drawer for safekeeping, and promptly forgotten about when he had seen Mr Tantony. The remark about mounting the cask on the wall had, however, brought it back to his mind, and he eagerly hustled Mr Tantony over to his desk and bade him sit down in his chair, making sure there was good light by which he might comfortably inspect the parchment scroll. 

“Oh John,” said Mr Tantony when he held the unexpected certificate in his hands, and Mr Gatcombe felt very pleased indeed to pick up on the surprise and pride in his friend’s voice. Putting aside the cask, he moved to stand behind the chair, one hand on Mr Tantony’s shoulder as he bent over it so they could view the certificate together. “It is a very fine certificate.” 

“Yes, I am particularly impressed with the penmanship, I daresay it must have been commissioned in Nottingham, for certainly I cannot think of anyone here with a hand as elegant as this one, and the parchment is of the highest quality…” 

When Mr Tantony, perhaps overcome with emotion, raised a hand to squeeze Mr Gatcombe’s, Mr Gatcombe trailed off and, having lost his train of thought, joined his friend in a moment of silent appreciation. 

“We must celebrate this,” Mr Tantony said eventually, setting down the piece of parchment with care and turning around to look up at Mr Gatcombe, who could not have agreed more, and who might have conceived of several ways of celebrating the occasion and suggested them, had not the tone of Mr Tantony’s voice removed any need he might have felt to do so. 

“I have been thinking,” Mr Tantony – Thomas – said, “of the second night we spent in London.” 

(It stood to reason that he should have, having just returned from York, for their second night in London was the night they had met Mr Strange at the Bedford.)

His fingers interlaced with Mr Gatcombe’s, and he slowly, very slowly, raised his hand to his lips to press a soft kiss to the inside of Mr Gatcombe’s wrist. 

“When you asked me to tie you to the bed.” 

(Well, this had been after they had returned from the Bedford, and Mr Strange had not been involved.)

A soft gasp escaped Mr Gatcombe, who had already blushed maidenly that afternoon and whose cheeks were reddening once more, though anyone who had seen him then would agree that this time, in the privacy of their joint office, his blush might have to be called coy. 

“Oh,” he breathed, and his eyelids fluttered at the memory of London, of all the secret, desperate words his friend had spoken into his gasping, speechless mouth while his body strained against its fetters to draw closer, meeting each thrust to feel it deeper, drinking each word in as his crisis brewed inside him. “Oh, Mr _Tantony_.”


End file.
